Sleepless Nights
by DolbyDigital
Summary: She walked aimlessly through the abandoned halls of Grimmauld Place, the eerie silence only interrupted by the echoing of her footsteps. She hadn't been able to sleep that night – the third night in a row – and she was beginning to feel claustrophobic cramped in her out-dated room left alone with her thoughts.


She walked aimlessly through the abandoned halls of Grimmauld Place, the eerie silence only interrupted by the echoing of her footsteps. She hadn't been able to sleep that night – the third night in a row – and she was beginning to feel claustrophobic cramped in her out-dated room left alone with her thoughts. Better to wander the dusty halls that time seemed to have long forgotten; at least it was a change of scenery.

An obnoxiously loud – and obviously fake – clearing of a throat brought her back to the present with a start. She was in a long corridor; the walls on both sides were lined with empty portraits, the backgrounds looking strange without their occupants seated amongst them. Progressing down the corridor was like looking at a timeline; the sceneries changing notably with each era. She stopped in front of one of the later portraits, and didn't realise she was staring at the vaguely familiar face until a shrewd looking witch leant forward in her frame and spoke in a cold upper-class voice.

"You know, it's rude to stare."

"I remember you," she blurted out before she could stop herself, "you're on the tapestry."

"Of course I'm on the tapestry. I'm a Black, aren't I?"

"Oh, yes... I didn't think..."

"Exactly. Typical of your kind; never thinking."

"You never married," she blurted out, desperate to change the topic and instantly regretting it when the witch in the portrait eyed her with chilling disdain.

"Yes. What of it?"

"I was... I was just wondering why... exactly... why was that?" she stuttered avoiding looking directly into the painted eyes.

"And what sort of question is that?" She asked with a haughty sniff.

"I'm... I'm sorry. I'll... uh... I'll just go, then..." She turned abruptly.

"No. I'll tell you," the woman called mildly, eyes downcast.

"What..."

"Or, I'll show you. Yes. I'll show you."

She watched the scene unfold solely, like the opening credits of an old film. A long, dark corridor with ornate portraits lining the walls – not unlike the one she was (or had been) standing in – the occupants all with superior expressions on their faces as they looked down at her; the clock on the wall appeared to be ticking backwards, and everything had a strangely textured quality to it.

"Cassiopeia," a cold voice called shrilly from the landing above.

"Yes, mother," she – no, _they_ – answered meekly.

"That _boy_ was here again. I hope you aren't encouraging this behaviour," she continued as she descended the stairs, head held high and not once sparing a glance at her daughter. She – _they? _– felt cold dread well up inside _them(?)_ at that. A dread that wasn't her own; a dread that she shared?

"No! Of course not, Mother, I..." she – _they?_ – hurried to appease the woman – _their(?) _mother – as she approached.

"I should hope so. A good pureblooded girl like yourself should marry a respectable _pureblood," _putting all the emphasize she could into that single word, "in the hopes of bettering your social standing and that of your family." By now she had reached the bottom of the stairs and was eyeing her daughter with such a chillingly calculated stare that _they_ barely suppressed the urge to take a step back.

Her – _their?_ – thoughts were becoming muddled, mingling until they were one, until she became _them_ and her – _their – _confusion lifted.

"Would you rather see shame brought onto the name of Black?" she hissed, leaning close to _their _face when a response was not forthcoming.

"No, of course not..."

"Then you shall put an end to these _meetings,_" she sneered, taking a step back from _them_, "and you will never contact this _muggle_" – her cool facade crumbling momentarily under a wince she didn't quite manage to cover in time – "again."

"Yes, mother," _they_ sighed, keeping _their _eyes to the floor.

"The Potter boy, or Crouch," she continues, willingly ignoring _their_ lack of conviction, "both would be respectable matches. Or Longbottom, I suppose. At a pinch. I'm sure you could do better than that, but it's best to be prepared." _They_ tuned out of the conversation, instead eyeing the portraits who stared back at _them _with no small amount of contempt – the history of the Black family lining the walls of their ancestral home, as if the tapestry in the sitting room wasn't enough.

"_Cassiopeia,"_ _their_ mother shrieked, having noticed _their_ lack of attention. "It's as if you don't care about your family line," she continued at a more reasonable volume, clearly baffled by the notion. "At this rate you'll end up marrying a _Weasley,_ and in a few years they're all going to be ousted for being the blood traitors they clearly are. We wouldn't want to be associated with that. We are Blacks, after all," And _their_ mother had clearly taken to the Black name with such pride upon her marriage that it was little wonder that the only record of her past – _Bulstrode_ – was on her beloved family tree.

"No, Mother. Wouldn't want to marry a Yaxley," _they_ sighed, _their _mind already wandering.

"What!?" _Their _mother hissed with such a dangerous calm that _they _knew was going to lead to severe punishment."Have you been listening to a word I've said? I have half a mind to tell your father about this, then you'll see..."

The words faded into background noise as the corridor began to fade away, disappearing like _they _– she? – was moving backwards and viewing the scene through a rapidly decreasing screen until there was only a pinprick of light left before _they_ – she? – found herself staring up at the ceiling lying on _their _– her – back. _Their_ – her – thoughts were separating again, becoming _their _– her – own, and _they_ – she – mourned the loss briefly; the warm presence of another mind with hers, the certainty that she was not alone.

Slowly, she pulled herself to her feet; the portrait was empty now, and so she made her way back to her room without another word. But still; she made a conscious effort to travel down that disused corridor late at night, learning the secrets of an ancient family line that no longer existed and comforting herself in the feeling of companionship.

She – no, _they_ – always looked forward to _their _nightly visits.


End file.
